No More Brothers (A Serafina Florio Mystery) by Susan Russo Anderson Page B
Authors: Susan Russo Anderson
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sheet of foolscap. “I need to read Abatti’s confession myself.” He rang the bell, directing his secretary to retrieve the document.
“We claim to have the killer behind bars. He had motive, means, opportunity, and he confessed.” He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “The town rejoices in our quick capture of Ugo’s murderer. We need to mark the passing of a military hero and do it quickly.”
His arguments were persuasive. She thought for a moment. “So we condone fratricide?”
The commissioner straightened the papers on his desk. He spoke, half to himself. “Let’s keep it simple. Ugo Pandolfina died of a knife wound to the heart. The one who wielded the weapon is behind bars and has confessed. Said he murdered for retribution, did it himself. What more is there?” He looked at Serafina and she knew he would brook no argument. “I’ve appealed to the judge to release the body for burial.”
The secretary returned with Abatti’s confession and left.
The commissioner began reading slowly to himself while she sat there, listening to the crackle of thin parchment, and willed herself to remain perfectly still.
When he finished, he tossed it on the desk. “All here, as you say. Signed by the prisoner, dated yesterday. I can only imagine what Colonna promised Abatti.”
“And later, when the thrill of Abatti’s capture fades and the whispers begin about bad blood between the brothers, what happens then? If it’s discovered that there are holes in Abatti’s confession, that the shoemaker arranged for Ugo’s murder—even helped his hired man by poisoning Ugo’s wine—it will look like our investigative techniques are expedient and slapdash. Journalists will crucify us. The public will feel duped and rightfully so.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Your arguments are sound.” For a moment, he gazed at nothing, nodding his head up and down. “Then, my dear, you must continue your investigation. Be quiet. Be discreet. Be quick—faster than those inky fingers can fan the flames of public sentiment. Our reputation is at stake.”
“To say nothing of justice.”
“Precisely.”
“I’ll talk to Colonna.”
He sighed. “Colonna is a trusted investigator, but he’s a straightforward man. Doesn’t believe in hunches or in a wizard’s canny leap. Doesn’t do well with digging. One day, I want to see you both working together, but not just yet, and certainly not now.”
“But I could use the help.”
“Not his.”
She bit her lower lip.
As he spoke, he took a letter from his middle drawer, folded it, and affixed his seal. “Killing by using the hands of another is hard to prove, but it happens more often than we like to admit—a favorite with the new bandits. In this case, when Abatti takes all the credit for the killing and his motive is so strong—it might be impossible to support. Unless, of course, the shoemaker confesses.”
Handing her the vellum, he continued. “This identifies you as my special agent. You’ve earned it. If Abatti were to recant his confession, or if you find enough evidence implicating the brother, take the shoemaker in for questioning, and we’ll give the town something to talk about. In the meantime, let the people mourn their loss. Let me see…” He riffled through the papers on his desk. “The funeral is Tuesday the 19 th .”
Straightening his sash, he turned from her and considered the scene out his window.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Prisoner
A film of water covered the skins of things down here, Serafina thought. It beaded on her upper lip and in her armpits as she followed a guard down the circular staircase of Oltramari’s jail. Moisture dampened the flame on her torch so that she could see no more than a few centimeters ahead. It was like being wrapped in a foul-smelling dream. She saw a dark form scurry past, perhaps Ugo’s shade, here to exact its revenge.
When Serafina entered the room, the guards said in unison, “Rise, please.” A
“We claim to have the killer behind bars. He had motive, means, opportunity, and he confessed.” He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “The town rejoices in our quick capture of Ugo’s murderer. We need to mark the passing of a military hero and do it quickly.”
His arguments were persuasive. She thought for a moment. “So we condone fratricide?”
The commissioner straightened the papers on his desk. He spoke, half to himself. “Let’s keep it simple. Ugo Pandolfina died of a knife wound to the heart. The one who wielded the weapon is behind bars and has confessed. Said he murdered for retribution, did it himself. What more is there?” He looked at Serafina and she knew he would brook no argument. “I’ve appealed to the judge to release the body for burial.”
The secretary returned with Abatti’s confession and left.
The commissioner began reading slowly to himself while she sat there, listening to the crackle of thin parchment, and willed herself to remain perfectly still.
When he finished, he tossed it on the desk. “All here, as you say. Signed by the prisoner, dated yesterday. I can only imagine what Colonna promised Abatti.”
“And later, when the thrill of Abatti’s capture fades and the whispers begin about bad blood between the brothers, what happens then? If it’s discovered that there are holes in Abatti’s confession, that the shoemaker arranged for Ugo’s murder—even helped his hired man by poisoning Ugo’s wine—it will look like our investigative techniques are expedient and slapdash. Journalists will crucify us. The public will feel duped and rightfully so.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Your arguments are sound.” For a moment, he gazed at nothing, nodding his head up and down. “Then, my dear, you must continue your investigation. Be quiet. Be discreet. Be quick—faster than those inky fingers can fan the flames of public sentiment. Our reputation is at stake.”
“To say nothing of justice.”
“Precisely.”
“I’ll talk to Colonna.”
He sighed. “Colonna is a trusted investigator, but he’s a straightforward man. Doesn’t believe in hunches or in a wizard’s canny leap. Doesn’t do well with digging. One day, I want to see you both working together, but not just yet, and certainly not now.”
“But I could use the help.”
“Not his.”
She bit her lower lip.
As he spoke, he took a letter from his middle drawer, folded it, and affixed his seal. “Killing by using the hands of another is hard to prove, but it happens more often than we like to admit—a favorite with the new bandits. In this case, when Abatti takes all the credit for the killing and his motive is so strong—it might be impossible to support. Unless, of course, the shoemaker confesses.”
Handing her the vellum, he continued. “This identifies you as my special agent. You’ve earned it. If Abatti were to recant his confession, or if you find enough evidence implicating the brother, take the shoemaker in for questioning, and we’ll give the town something to talk about. In the meantime, let the people mourn their loss. Let me see…” He riffled through the papers on his desk. “The funeral is Tuesday the 19 th .”
Straightening his sash, he turned from her and considered the scene out his window.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Prisoner
A film of water covered the skins of things down here, Serafina thought. It beaded on her upper lip and in her armpits as she followed a guard down the circular staircase of Oltramari’s jail. Moisture dampened the flame on her torch so that she could see no more than a few centimeters ahead. It was like being wrapped in a foul-smelling dream. She saw a dark form scurry past, perhaps Ugo’s shade, here to exact its revenge.
When Serafina entered the room, the guards said in unison, “Rise, please.” A
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